


How We Touch the Sky

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aliens, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Shiro (Voltron), First Kiss, First Meetings, Light Angst, M/M, Mechanic Shiro (Voltron), Mutual Pining, Pilot Keith (Voltron), Shiro & Lotor (Voltron) Friendship, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 23:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: One year after an accident that took his arm and his ability to pilot, Shiro's settled into his new role as mechanic. He tells himself that the routine is fine, that there's no purpose in longing for the sky. Flying, he knows, will never really be his again.And then he meets Keith, a new-hire pilot with something to prove.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 116
Kudos: 422





	How We Touch the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taurussieben](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taurussieben/gifts).

> Fic request from [@sparklefly2](https://twitter.com/sparklefly2), who asked for a mechanic/pilot AU! 
> 
> It was hard to find a good tag for this, but the setting is modern-day but if aliens (Galra and Alteans) made first contact with humans, so there's a mix of regular technology and more advanced technology. Is this how I get away with not knowing how space engines work? Yes. Shhh. 
> 
> Thank you to [Kika](https://twitter.com/B1ackPa1adins) for reading through this for me!

After Shiro arrives to Lotor’s office for their scheduled meeting, Lotor pushes a file across his desk and says, “Do me a favor and try not to scare this one off, yes?” 

Shiro knows he’s gotten better at schooling his expressions because Lotor doesn’t then proceed to half-tease-half-scold Shiro for his undiplomatic reaction. He knows his boss-sometimes-friend means well: his tone isn’t aggressive or even accusatory, just that familiar resigned, disappointed sigh Lotor’s adopted over the last couple years since inheriting this Terran-based business. He always sounds vaguely put-upon— sometimes condescending, sometimes heartfelt. 

Friendship with Lotor is a bit like gambling: you never know what the result’s going to be until it happens. 

Shiro once went drinking with Lotor who then proceeded to spend the entire evening talking about Shiro’s prospects as a mate and Shiro’s never quite been able to take him seriously after that. Whenever Lotor sighs, it’s with the deep gravity of someone who believes Shiro’s wasting his potential. And Lotor sighs a lot. It’s hard to take his dramatics seriously when, Shiro thinks, they’re simply dramatics. 

And, well, after a lifetime of a degenerative disease, Shiro doesn’t quite like people believing he’s _wasting his potential,_ no matter how dramatic or well-meaning.

“I never try to,” Shiro says instead of voicing any of that. 

“This one’s a big deal,” Lotor insists, gesturing to the file. “Admiral’s kid. Last thing we need is him getting poached to the private sector, much less Galra flight-testing or Altea pilot-training.” 

“Mm,” Shiro hums absently. He always thinks it’s a little rich for Lotor to snidely comment on both Galra and Altea technology testing, considering how quick he is to disparage Earth’s _juvenile_ attempts (his words, not Shiro’s) at meeting the universal market demands. Shiro privately suspects that’s why Lotor’s focused on Earth as a base for his operations: easier to shine among the primitives. 

Shiro also knows better than to point that out if he doesn’t want Lotor to start sassing. Last time Shiro suggested Lotor might not have the best of intentions, Lotor had acted like a wounded animal, heaving deep breaths with all the drama of a soap actor whenever he looked at Shiro, as if Shiro were some great disappointment. 

Shiro carefully opens the file in front of him before picking it up in his hand, surveying his newly assigned pilot. 

_Keith Kogane,_ the file reads. Shiro glances through the personnel information, eyes glancing over the photo paper-clipped to the corner. Young and handsome, his expression neutral but radiating confidence. He’s right to, Shiro thinks, glancing at his records— Kogane broke the Quintessence Alteration Barrier in seven point three seconds, shattering the last record by a solid two seconds. A QAB record set by Shiro, who’d shaved only one second off the record before that. 

Shiro can’t hold back his small hum of approval. And interest. 

“I’m serious,” Lotor presses. “We can’t afford to lose this one.” 

It isn’t that Shiro thinks he’s impossible to work with. He’s just _particular_. He knows how the ships work, he knows when someone’s messing it up, and he knows the importance of pointing that out. Gently, of course— Shiro knows how to be diplomatic. 

But it’s also true he’s lost two pilots in the last few months due to _too much pressure and intimidation on the ground_. Sometimes, Shiro’s discovered, being friendly isn’t enough. He knows he has his walls up, but Shiro doesn’t regret pointing out issues with his previous pilots’ standards. Shiro’s all for risk-taking, but only if it’ll pay off— he’ll be damned if he lets a pilot crash and burn because they were too cocky to do better. 

So, yeah, maybe he’s intimidating. 

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Shiro says, neutrally; if Kogane knows how to handle a plane as well as his file suggests, Shiro doubts he’ll need to be told not to throttle the quintessence impulse stabilizers while he’s also activating the particle brakes. 

He closes the file to hand back to Lotor— chancing one more glance at the picture, committing the face to memory. 

-

Shiro doesn’t actually meet his pilot until well into Keith’s first week on the job. There’s orientation and training and a lot of hoops to jump through before their newest pilot can start test-piloting the experimental engines, and so he hasn’t crossed any paths with Shiro yet. 

It’s just as well. Shiro’s been waiting on a three-pronged Olkarian engine turbo winget that’s been delayed in transit, which has put him behind schedule in finishing up what will be Keith’s main flyer. 

Shiro doesn’t mind the delay in meeting his assigned pilot; in the year since he’s moved into the mechanic role, he’s gotten used to working on his own for long stretches of time. People give him a wide berth now— the aforementioned intimidation and, Shiro knows, pity. He’s lost count of the number of times people stare intensely into his eyes just to _prove_ that they aren’t staring at his pinned-up shirt sleeve, at the vacancy on his right side. 

Thinking of it sends a phantom pulse of pain shooting through his nerves. Shiro sighs, pauses, and sets down his magnet pliers so he can rub absently at his shoulder, massaging into the aching, twisted muscle. 

Shiro glances at his phone, propped up next to his toolkit, displaying the time. He still has a ways to go before his lunch break. 

He drops his hand from his shoulder, picks up his magnet pliers, and returns to work on the flyer. The plane’s hull is hitched open enough for Shiro to work, his hand deep in the guts of the engine as he fiddles with the pliers. It’s a familiar sight, a familiar day, and familiar work. Shiro’s used to the routine. 

Shiro’s used to the bustle of sound in the hangar— jets getting hauled in and out, workers building and rebuilding older models, higher-ups giving tours, new pilots showboating, the general bustle of many bodies moving and doing their work. 

Shiro thinks he hears footsteps behind him but isn’t prepared when, suddenly, something’s poking him right in his ass. He gives a startled gasp, drops his pliers, and then slams his head against the outcropped quintessence stabilizer as he yanks himself out of the bowels of the flyer. 

His face is bright red when he whips around, prepared to fumble his way through an awkward conversation about _did you just touch my ass, what the hell—_ when his eyes land on a dog instead of a human. The dog gives one wag of his tail when Shiro looks at him and then dives in to get a sniff of Shiro’s crotch instead of his ass. 

“Woah, Jesus!” Shiro squawks, embarrassed but relieved he won’t need to deal with HR today. He’s gentle as he pushes the dog’s nose away from his front. 

The dog licks his hand and pushes against it, seeking affection. Shiro pats him on the head, motivated by the dog’s frantically wagging tail. The dog is _massive_, and as Shiro kneels to scratch along his jaw and behind his ear, he realizes he’s more wolf than dog— and definitely unearthly. 

Alien dog, then. Maybe he’s come in off the Altean voyager jet that landed this morning— Altea always loves to send along new technology and gifts to Earth, but Shiro can’t recall them ever sending live samples due to potential cross-planetary species environmental contamination risks. Maybe Allura— CEO of the Altea contingency— is flexing for Lotor: look at what Altea is capable of. Can you match it? 

“Hey, buddy, where’d you come from?” Shiro asks the dog. He doesn’t expect an answer, but then again it _is_ an alien dog. He wouldn’t be surprised if the dog started talking to him (although then he really would need to go to HR). 

“Shit, sorry,” a decidedly non-dog voice answers, punctuated by hurried footsteps. A moment later, a young man hurries out from behind the flyer, rounding the hull, eyes on the dog. “Kosmo, stop wandering off.” 

The dog— Kosmo, then— perks up and abandons Shiro, trotting to the man and curling around his legs, nosing at his hip until the man gives a begrudging pat.

But Shiro’s not really paying attention to Kosmo anymore. He stares up at this young man from his spot kneeling on the floor. 

Keith Kogane. Shiro recognizes him from his photo. 

And the photo absolutely did him zero justice: Keith Kogane is the most beautiful person Shiro’s ever seen. 

Shiro’s not the type to usually notice something like that, but it’s true. His hair’s pulled back in a low ponytail, messy and loose at the nape of his neck, and his eyes are downright breathtaking. He’s slim, wiry, but with broad shoulders. Shiro stares blatantly as Keith scrubs his hands through the dog’s fur and Shiro never would have guessed that petting a dog could show off someone’s muscles, flexing beneath his uniform, and yet that’s exactly what’s happening. 

Shiro knows he’s staring openly but Keith doesn’t appear to be paying attention to that.

He doesn’t know Admiral Krolia Kogane well, but he can recognize her features in her son’s face— angular, feline, and devastating. What Shiro downright ignored in the admiral he can’t stop staring at and appreciating in Keith. It is, quite frankly, overwhelming. 

Realizing he’s staring for far too long, Shiro swallows once and asks, “He’s yours?” 

Keith pauses, hands still buried in the dog’s fur. He slowly looks up, studying Shiro. Shiro wishes he’d had some preparation for their meeting— his work coveralls (hardly the most flattering of uniforms) hang loose at his hips, half-off and sleeves tied around his waist. He shrugged out of it earlier for better movement and because he runs hot while he’s working on engines, preferring to work in the lighter tee-shirt beneath the coveralls. But he knows he’s also covered in grease and quintessence residue, his hair tacky with sweat and sticking to his forehead and temples. 

Shiro knows himself and what he looks like when faced with a pretty boy— he flushes full-bodied and it’s _not_ attractive. He probably looks like an overheated, sweaty, dirty monster. 

“Yeah, he’s with me,” Keith finally says, eyes sweeping over Shiro. He stands up, one hand straying to Kosmo’s head and resting there. There’s something guarded in his expression, Shiro thinks. “Sorry about him,” Keith says with forced casualness. “He’s kinda nosey.” 

“Ha. Nosey,” Shiro laughs, unsure if Keith’s making the purposeful pun. The laugh is overloud. He needs to get a grip. When Keith doesn’t respond, Shiro just coughs and says, “You have no idea. Usually a guy buys me dinner first.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels his face grow hotter. But Keith doesn’t respond at all, even if Shiro thinks there’s amusement in his eyes. Just for a flash. Shiro gives another cough, trying to clear his throat and remember what it is to be a normal, functioning human.

“I’m surprised they’d let you bring your… space dog to work,” Shiro admits, hand on his hip.

Keith’s gentle expression immediately clouds— just barely, and only for a moment, but noticeably. “Yeah, well.” He shrugs with forced nonchalance. “Guess I’m just _special._” 

“Well,” Shiro says, knowing he’s walking on uneven footing here— but Shiro’s always been a risk-taker; it’s why he has only one arm left, he thinks morbidly. Maybe if he fucks up, Keith will sic his dog on him, and he’ll be fully armless. “I mean, since you’ve beaten the QAB record so soundly, I’ll let you do whatever you want.” 

Keith stares at him.

Shiro thinks about the likelihood of a quintessence field opening beneath his feet and swallowing him whole. “I mean. They should let you do whatever you want. You know. You’ve earned it… you’re not some green pilot.” 

Keith folds his arms over his chest, just regarding Shiro. Shiro’s terrified that he really has insulted him (new record, scaring away a new pilot in less than an hour; Lotor really is going to murder him) but then a smile tucks into the corner of Keith’s mouth and he shrugs. 

“You know about my record,” he says. 

“I like to pay attention to trend setters,” Shiro answers, trying to keep his voice from sounding quite so strangled. “Seems bring-your-dog-to-work day is the next one.” 

“Hair’s not regulation, either,” Keith announces. “Guess I’m just the bad boy around here.” 

Shiro hates how his stomach gives a little swoop at the idea of a bad boy. God, he’s pathetic.

“I like it,” Shiro says because of course he does. He clears his throat. “I mean, it looks cool.” Cool, the exact opposite of what Shiro’s being right now. “I’m Shiro, by the way. I’m your mechanic.” 

“I know,” Keith says. “I’m Keith.” 

“I know,” Shiro says back and then laughs. 

Keith unfolds his arms to hold out his hand to shake. Shiro stares down at Keith’s right hand, amused but a little mortified when he sticks his left hand out to meet him, pointedly glancing down at his right shoulder.

“Oh fuck,” Keith says and time he’s the one to turn pink. “Fuck.” 

Keith shoves his left hand out so fast that he nearly slaps Shiro’s hand away while attempting to grab it and shake it. He doesn’t apologize, which Shiro appreciates, always hates having to go _it’s okay_ when someone self-flagellates over a simple error. 

When Keith looks up to meet Shiro’s eyes, it doesn’t have that aggressive _avoiding looking elsewhere_ quality. It looks like he really wants to just look at Shiro. 

“That happens a lot,” Shiro says with a laugh. “Sometimes I still think I’m reaching out with my right and it’s just— not.” He shouldn’t laugh at that. It’s hardly funny, but that’s always been Shiro’s humor. “I’ll wake up in the morning and reach to turn off my alarm and not understand why it’s not shutting off. All I can say is thank goodness I’m ambidextrous or else I’d be screwed.” 

_Was_ ambidextrous. Shiro bites back the _Guess I’m only left-handed now!_ joke. 

Scrubbing his remaining arm free of grease and quintessence residue one-handed is still a pain in the ass, but he’s gotten a handle on doing most everything else. His handwriting is still awful, but at least he can type one-handed decently enough. It’s been an adjustment, yeah, but it could have been much worse. 

Shiro can offer all this as a joke, and it feels strange. He’s used to joking about it with himself, but not with sharing that dark humor with someone else. 

He braces himself, waiting for the pity, the sympathy, the polite questions or the polite non-questions. Nothing like that comes, though. Shiro watches Keith give a thoughtful frown, squeezing Shiro’s hand before letting go. 

“I hear you’re the best mechanic we’ve got,” Keith says. 

Shiro shrugs, although his smile turns pleased at the praise, indirect or otherwise. “Only the best for our best pilot, right?” 

“Ha,” Keith breathes, not quite humble dismissal and not quite genuine amusement. His mouth wobbles a bit, as if fighting between a smile and a frown and settles somewhere in between. 

Shiro jerks his head towards the flyer. “This is yours, by the way. I’m putting finishing touches on her and then she’ll be ready to soar.” 

Keith turns his head, assessing the flyer with a critical eye. He seems pleased with what he sees. Shiro’s not the engineer for the engines or the flyers, but he can’t help the swell of pride that bubbles inside him. He’s been working hard on this one— it’s the newest upgraded model of the ship he’d piloted before his crash, and it’s felt something like a personal vendetta to make it the best damn flyer in the air. 

He’s scared plenty of other pilots away, emphasizing all the important features. Shiro’s not going to tell someone not to be reckless— he is, always was, at least— but he’s got no time for show-offs who haven’t earned the luxury of being so. And if there’s one thing Shiro’s learned, it’s that pilots don’t like getting talked back to. 

Keith, though, runs a hand over the hull, his fingertips slim and elegant. Shiro watches the way he drags along the fused lines of the flyer’s metal plating, his eyes big and wondering as he regards the ship Shiro’s spent the better part of a month customizing. 

“She’s pretty,” Keith finally says. His eyes glitter, something like amusement lurking. The clouded expression from before is long gone. “Looks fast.”

“That’s the idea,” Shiro agrees and grins. He gestures to the interior. “And just wait until you see this engine in action. Nobody’ll be able to catch you.” 

He waits until Keith stands at the other end of the hull, peering down at the contents of the engine. 

“If nobody can catch me,” Keith says, voice dark and smooth like a promise, his eyes molten when he looks up at Shiro, “it’s because of what I can do, not because of any ship.” 

It’d be a reprimand or a smug announcement from anyone else, but Shiro feels as if Keith is testing him— even as his voice drips with something flirtatious and inviting.

Shiro’s mouth tilts into a half-grin, lopsided and almost boyish. He feels like he did that first day as a pilot, stepping onto the tarmac and knowing he’d never want to be anywhere else. 

“With my ship, that’s a guarantee,” Shiro says back. 

Shiro walks Keith through each mechanism within the engine, all of it stemming out from the newly installed quintessence-stabilizers. Shiro knows he rambles for a solid two minutes without breathing, too excited to get through everything, to show off what he’s been working on.

He’s never done this for a pilot before. Then again, no pilot’s really wanted to stick around to listen to Shiro talk about it. Shiro knows well enough that too many pilots here see him as the fallen pilot, not a mechanic in his own right; a lot of them think he’s just playing at a new career. 

And yeah, maybe part of him _is_ pathetic. Maybe a bigger part of him is unable to let go. But it’s better than nothing and Shiro genuinely loves working with the engines— seeing the ways he can make everything go faster, higher, more efficient. 

It’s not flying. But nothing’s ever going to be like flying. 

Shiro’s known that since the day he crashed his plane and saw the burning, severing remains of his arm and knew, undoubtedly, that his career was over. All he can do now is make the best of what he has. 

Maybe part of him should be afraid of flying. Maybe part of him should want to keep everyone grounded along with him. But Shiro hears the sky calling him just as loudly as it always has. And he’s never been one to ignore a call. 

Shiro pauses mid-sentence to gulp down a breath of air. He laughs at himself, pulling out the magnet pliers he abandoned earlier before glancing up at Keith. “So, uh, yeah, been doing a lot. I hope you like her.” 

Keith looks up at him from across the garbled jungle of mechanical valves and quintessence output quantifiers. And then, slowly, Keith smiles at him— and it’s devastating. 

“I like you,” Keith decides. Shiro can’t begin to guess how he means for Shiro to interpret that statement. Kosmo shoves his head against Shiro’s hand, as if to punctuate his owner’s statement. Keith grins wider and says, “It’ll be good working with you.” 

_Oh no,_ Shiro thinks, absently, as he stares at Keith across the engine. 

-

Keith sticks around for a couple more hours just letting Shiro run him through the checklist on his new flyer, and afterwards, as Shiro heads home for the evening, all he can think about is how beautiful his smile was. 

It’d be one thing to think and know Keith’s attractive. Shiro knows it’s not that. Shiro’s not a schoolboy dealing with his first crush; he can handle working with beautiful people. 

But the next day, as Shiro comes in for work, he finds Keith and Kosmo waiting at the flyer. Keith’s leaning back against it casually, arms crossed, his hair looking messy and bed-mushed, his eyes a little sleepy. He perks up when he spots Shiro approaching, standing up straight. 

“Hey,” he calls. “So I was thinking about what you said yesterday about the sluggishness in the impulse throttle.” 

“Yeah?” Shiro asks.

“So, I had some thoughts,” Keith declares, pulling out a PADD and flicking his thumb across the orange screen, summoning a relatively lengthy list of notes. 

He walks Shiro through the notes he took, pausing to ask questions when Shiro clarifies if something’s doable or not doable. Keith nods, considers, and takes notes in turn. He looks so focused, so determined, so handsome. 

And that’s what makes Shiro certain that he’s in trouble.

-

“Wow,” Lotor drawls a few days later when Shiro mentions Keith casually over after-work drinks. “You’ve got it bad.” 

“No,” Shiro protests. All he’d said was, _Keith’s really talented, huh?_ There’s no way that can be so betraying. There’s no way he could have something in his voice that even begins to hint at what he’s feeling, how even just walking into the hangar and finding Keith there waiting for him can make him feel squirmy and longing at once. 

Keith, in so many ways, feels like a sky all his own. Shiro looks at him and wants to be reckless; he looks at him and feels the call to fly like he never really has before. 

Keith shouldn’t have this power over him. They’ve only just met. But Shiro can’t deny that he feels drawn to Keith. That, somehow, cosmically, they were meant to meet. 

And there’s no way Lotor could guess all of that from just one sentence. 

Lotor gives him a pitying look, takes a sip of Altean wine, and sighs in that mocking way of his: “Oh, _honey._” 

Shiro rolls his eyes and swallows his beer, saying nothing more. Something swirls in his gut— nausea, maybe, or the beer sitting weird on an empty stomach. 

Or, really, thinking about Keith’s pretty smile or how bright he’d shined today jumping out of the cockpit after a successful run, punching Shiro lightly in the arm as if Shiro had done anything helpful to assist in Keith’s achievement. As if it was anything but Keith’s own ability. 

Keith is the sky. Shiro is just a dreamer anchored to the earth. 

-

Routine settles in easily; Shiro works on the flyer and Keith tests it out. Keith offers suggestions each time he touches down again, rattling off a short list of things he noticed or things to work on for the engine. Shiro makes the adjustments, puzzling over ways to make things even better, how to make Keith go faster, how to make sure Keith _soars_. 

It’s a wonderful feeling. There’s something exhilarating about Keith rolling the flyer back into the hangar and emerging from inside, his hair a wild bird’s nest around him and his grin bright and infectious. A small part of Shiro wants to believe that Keith only grins like that for him— although he has no way to know for sure. 

And, anyway, it’s a little pathetic of him to wish for that. 

Theirs is an easy enough working relationship. Shiro knows he’s nursing a bit of a crush but also trusts himself to let it fade away as he grows used to Keith. So what if he’s beautiful? That doesn’t matter much to Shiro in the end. But then Keith’s also smart, intelligent, and instinctive. He races through the air and sometimes all Shiro can do is stand at the hangar entrance, hand shielding his eyes, and watching him tear across the stark Arizona sky. He can’t help but _long_, not just to be up there again, but to get to be up there with Keith. 

But he’s on the tarmac, grounded. 

It’s been a year since Shiro’s accident. He gets phantom pain sometimes but otherwise has made the necessary adjustments to his new career and new reality. He knows that pining for something that isn’t going to return is no help. Lotor’s told him a few times about a waiting list for experimental Galra tech, a quintessence-powered prosthetic, but Shiro’s not holding out hope to get that any time soon. 

And even with it, he’s a flight risk— they’re not going to put him back in the sky no matter what fancy tech he can pay for. 

Shiro spent his life following his dreams against all evidence telling him he shouldn’t. Maybe somewhere, deep down, he always knew that eventually this path would reach some sort of dead-end. 

Beside him, a radio crackles to life and he hears the rich, husky slide of Keith’s voice say, “Um… hey. You there?” 

“I’m here,” Shiro answers when he picks up the radio and depresses the button to talk. There’s a brief spike of worry— something’s gone wrong. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Keith answers once Shiro releases the button and Shiro feels his shoulders drop, tension easing away. He can hear Keith’s hesitancy, can hear that there’s something he wants to say. “I just… It’s really pretty up here.”

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes. 

It’s true. It’s nearly evening and that was always his favorite time to fly— when the sun kissed the horizon, flirting the sky into such a beautiful array of colors, when the air was thin and Shiro felt like he could do anything. It was always so natural to be up there, flying, coaxing his jet into the simplest dive or roll or dip. It was all easy. It was like breathing. It was like he was made to be up there. 

Not so much now. 

Shiro can just imagine what it must feel like for Keith— up in the sky, the only human for miles, in control of his own movement, his own destiny, his own freedom. He wonders if Keith also thrills at the thought of endless possibility, how the list of all the things he could do stretches as far and wide as the horizon. How everything looks so much different from the upper atmosphere, everything stretched out like points on a map. 

He can imagine Keith smiling as he grips the controls, as he coaxes the flyer faster and faster and _faster_. He can imagine Keith’s heart pounding as he keeps pushing himself. Everything Keith feels, Shiro thinks he’s felt, too. 

“How does it feel?” Shiro finds himself asking, knows he’ll regret the question, feels the way longing opens raw and bleeding in his chest, a wound that’s never going to heal. 

In the moment, as he imagines Keith with his wicked smile, the sun in his hair, barrel rolling his flyer, he can’t know if it’s longing for Keith or longing for the sky that he feels. 

“It’s perfect,” Keith says and, god, really, it is. 

Shiro aches through his entire body, itching to be up there, itching to curl his remaining arm around Keith’s willowy frame, hand closing around his hip. He wants to fly. He wants to plant his mouth on the back of Keith’s neck and just breathe. 

He wants. He wants. God, how he wants. 

He’s spent the last year telling himself that he’s fine, that he’s content— but he knows he’s only trying to convince himself. 

Shiro sighs, pressing the radio against his forehead and just breathing, trying to rein his emotions back in again. He hasn’t cried since his accident. He doesn’t plan to cry about it now. 

Shiro knows he has a lot of regrets. Knows there’s a lot he’s never gotten to do, a lot he never will get to do. 

But, at least, Shiro can’t regret helping Keith fly. 

-

Every run, Keith contacts him over the radio— short, simple observations, really. But Shiro starts to look forward to them, starts to leave the radio in his pocket for easy access. 

-

About three weeks into his pair-up with Keith, Shiro’s on his way to start his shift when he hears Keith’s voice ring out, sharp, acidic, and _angry,_ “You don’t fucking know _shit._” 

Shiro swivels on his heel and veers towards the breakroom, shouldering the door open just in time to watch a fellow pilot lift his hands and say, “I didn’t mean anything by it, man.” 

“Fuck off,” Keith snaps, voice so dark and completely different from how Shiro’s ever heard him speak. He’s grown used to the gravelly edge of Keith’s voice— quite likes it— but now he sounds raw. He’s poised for a fight, all coiled up and hands fisted at his sides. 

“What’s going on?” Shiro asks. 

“Commander,” the other pilot says, stiffening up, and then waffling. “I mean—” 

Shiro’s used to that, too. Nobody really knows what to call Shiro now that he’s been _demoted_ to mechanic but still, technically, holds his title. 

“We were just talking,” the pilot says, “… Sir.” 

Shiro glances at Keith. Keith’s not looking at him. 

“About?” Shiro presses. 

The pilot knows he’s been cornered, shoulders raising in a somewhat hostile shrug. “I just wanted to know what it’s like to have an admiral for a mother.” 

“That’s not what you fucking said and you know it,” Keith snaps.

“Okay,” Shiro says, calmly, “Let’s just take a breath.”

He touches Keith’s shoulder, but Keith jerks away from his touch harshly. He shoves the door open and storms from the room, leaving the pilot and Shiro behind. Shiro’s hand hovers in the air after him for half a breath before he lets it drop back down to his side. 

He glances over at the pilot who, in the wake of Keith’s exit, looks a little less contrite and more visibly frustrated. 

“We all know why he got this job,” the pilot tells Shiro, as if Shiro might be a sympathizing party. “I don’t know why he’s gotta get so defensive about it!” 

“It costs nothing to assume the best in people. The universe could always do with more empathy, lieutenant,” Shiro says, neutrally— but perhaps not neutrally enough. Some ice must have slipped into his tone because the pilot’s eyes widen, his face turns red, and he looks away hurriedly with a mumbled _yes sir._

Shiro turns and retreats, searching for Keith. He doesn’t know him well enough to know exactly where he’d go when he’s upset. He tries the other breakroom, then the hangar, and then finally outside. 

Keith doesn’t seem to have picked any particular, significant place to stew in his anger. Instead, he’s walked off blindly and Shiro eventually finds him in front of the main reception office, fisting a handful of pebbles and throwing them at the chain-link fence that surrounds the Garrison’s property. 

“Keith,” Shiro calls, just to warn him that someone’s approaching. 

Keith pauses mid-throw and glances over his shoulder towards Shiro. He still looks tensed, fire in his eyes. He drops the pebbles and shoves his hands into his pockets. He kicks at one of the rocks with the toe of his boot. He looks braced for a fight.

“I don’t need anybody feeling sorry for me or thinking I’m getting special treatment,” Keith snaps, agitated, his shoulders hitched up towards his ears. 

“I know,” Shiro tells him, calmly. He comes to a stop a little in front of Keith, itching to reach out and reassure him somehow, but unwilling to make Keith uncomfortable by touching him again. 

“I’m here ‘cause I fucking worked for it, just like everybody else!”

“I know,” Shiro says again. 

“I don’t need any of them to approve of me!” 

“I know.” 

Keith whips around, glaring at Shiro, his eyes so bright and so fierce. He’s a supernova, Shiro thinks, or something equally as explosive and impossible to look away from. Keith doesn’t say anything, just staring at Shiro with that deep intensity with which he always seems to stare at Shiro. 

Shiro holds out his hand in a placating manner, smiling. “I know that feeling, you know.” 

“Do people think you got hired on for the diversity hire since you’re part alien? Get assigned the best flyers ‘cause you’re _special_?” Keith snaps, waspishly. “What, you got a mom in the admiralty, too?” 

“No,” Shiro says, offering a small smile. “My mom’s a florist.” 

Keith doesn’t seem to find this funny. “Everybody knows how hard you worked to get where you are. Nobody’s going to claim you’re getting special treatment.” 

“Of course they do,” Shiro answers. “I know you know about my accident.”

“That’s not the same.” 

“Maybe,” Shiro relents. “But I went against medical advice and they were right to suggest I stay out of the sky. Plenty of people think I only got the go-ahead because of my record… and then I got to pay for it the old-fashioned way.” He takes a step towards Keith, hesitating before he reaches out to touch his shoulder. This time, Keith doesn’t pull away but tips his chin up to look at him, something vulnerable in his expression. “After that, you know… well, you know how people here are. I get a lot of pitying looks and a lot of avoidance. Nobody really wants to talk about what happened to me— and a lot of them think I’ve been kept on as a mechanic because Lotor feels sorry for me.” Shiro shrugs. “And maybe he does. There are plenty of more talented, more experienced mechanics out there.” 

Keith frowns. “Shiro—” 

“Keith,” Shiro interrupts, gently. “People are always going to say someone didn’t earn their place, but anybody with eyes knows you’re here for a reason. A good reason. And it has nothing to do with who you’re related to or what blood you have.” 

There’s a tense moment in which Keith looks like he still wants to fight, like he doesn’t know what to say or what to do. But then, just as easily, something eases in Keith’s eyes, just barely. 

“Yeah.” 

Shiro squeezes Keith’s shoulder and feels the tension leech away from him. There’s still something guarded in Keith’s eyes, but he manages a wobbly smile as he looks up at Shiro. 

“I think you’re amazing,” Shiro tells him. “I’ve never seen anybody fly like you do.” 

Keith seems to glow beneath the praise, although Shiro thinks it’s hardly praise— it’s fact. There’s never been a pilot like Keith. There never will be another one like him, Shiro thinks. 

Shiro and Keith head back towards the hangar and the long line of flyers. Shiro runs an appreciative hand over each one as he passes, sliding his fingertips along the cold metal of each ship. It feels like clockwork, like natural routine. 

They stop at Keith’s flyer, sleek and smaller than the others— built for speed, and coaxed to those limits by Keith’s superior flying. Shiro tugs his toolkit over to sit on the bench beside the flyer and starts his regular diagnostic. 

Keith watches, leaning against the flyer’s propped-open hull as Shiro works. He’s content simply to watch Shiro work and Shiro’s content to let him. Shiro hooks in the portable diagnostic computer, hooking it into its port and waiting for it to light up as it starts running through the computerized mechanisms in the engine. 

Keith’s eyes are on Shiro’s hand as he works, watching his fingers slide through the wiring and metal, fiddling. Keith’s fingers curl and uncurl around the edge of the engine’s compartment. He still seems a little agitated, although calmer now. Focusing. Channeling that energy into something else.

“What you said before,” Keith finally says, breaking the silence. 

“Mm?” 

“About people pitying you now,” Keith elaborates. “If they do— why do you stay?”

Shiro shrugs. He’s asked himself the same question a few times, hence why he has a ready answer. “I guess after my accident, I just wanted things to feel normal. Guess that’s why I came back here to work. It’s not the same as it was, sure… My mom wanted me to go home for a while. But it was important for me to be here.” 

The computer gives one chirp to indicate its finished diagnostic. Quintessence levels in the flyer are stabilized. He’ll just need to replace a luxite bolt. Standard stuff. Everything is just standard stuff. Everything is very grounded, very level, very safe. 

_Humans weren’t meant to fly,_ his father told him once, mouth thinned into a worried line. Although his parents had never actively discouraged his dream, he knows he’d worried them. After his accident, he knows that worry’s only increased tenfold. 

And maybe humans weren’t meant to fly. Maybe _he_ wasn’t ever meant to fly. 

Keith’s silent, just watching Shiro as he works, his arms crossed and his hip leaning heavily against the flyer’s hull. His mouth is a thin line now, too, his eyes dark and thoughtful as he watches Shiro work. 

Shiro fishes a new bolt from his toolbox and digs his hand into the innards of the engine, unscrewing the old one and replacing it with the fresh one. The quintessence gives a shimmering whine at its sudden movement but stabilizes quickly enough— Shiro’s old hat at this technique, after all. 

“Shiro.” 

At the sound of his name, Shiro looks up as Keith pushes himself from the hull and rounds it, approaching Shiro. He holds out his hand. He doesn’t grab at Shiro’s one hand, sending his stabilizer-wrench clattering to the ground, but offers it instead— and waits. 

Shiro gives a hum of question but Keith doesn’t answer. He just leaves his hand stretched out towards him. And, well, Shiro’s always been more curious than cautious— he sets down his wrench and places his hand gently in Keith’s, confusion clear on his face. 

But once he has a hold on him, Keith grips tight and firm. He turns on his heel and tugs, pulling Shiro away from the ship. He strides across the hangar, each step purposeful and pounding against the concrete. Shiro has a longer stride than him and yet he finds himself tripping after him. 

He gives a small laugh. “Keith— what are you doing? Where are we going?” 

Keith doesn’t answer. He leads Shiro out past the opening in the chain-link fence and to the employee lot, passing by several cars— including Shiro’s— and stopping before a sleek red hoverbike. 

Shiro puzzles over that before Keith tugs on Shiro’s hand again and jerks his head. “Come with me.” 

“Blowing off work?” Shiro asks. 

Keith snorts. “We’re done for the day. Come on.” 

He hops onto the bike and fishes out a pair of goggles. He digs around and finds a second pair and holds it out towards Shiro. 

The familiar longing opens into a yawning abyss in Shiro’s chest as he looks at Keith on his hoverbike. He hasn’t driven a hoverbike since his accident. 

It pulls an almost watery laugh from his throat. “Damn. I haven’t seen one of these in a while.” 

“You used to ride?” Keith asks in the sort of tone that suggests that he already knows the answer. 

Shiro nods anyway. “Hard to drive one-handed. I keep meaning to redesign mine so it has a wheel instead of a handlebar. If I can adjust the throttle and brake to be in the same spot, I should be fine— maybe different handle, or foot pedals, but…” 

“Come here,” Keith says, softly. “We can both drive.” 

Shiro snorts. “How?” 

Still, he presses the goggles to his face to get suction before he uses his one hand to get the strap over his skull, adjusting it once he’s finished and then climbing up after Keith, settling behind him. 

“Just hang onto me for now. I’ll show you once we’re out in the desert.” 

That’s the only warning Keith gives him before he revs the engine to life and peels out of the parking lot. All Shiro can do is hook his arm tight around Keith’s lithe body and cling. Shiro’s heart races in his chest to match the speed of the hoverbike and as they zip down the old roads leading away from the Garrison compound, Shiro gives a soft whoop of surprise. Keith skids into a corner and Shiro can imagine his grin, can imagine how good it must feel, how much he must love the hum of energy all around them, the stinging slap of wind against their cheeks, wind-burning their lips. 

It feels natural to ride with Keith. They curve into turns together, their bodies mere extensions of the bike’s counterbalance, whipping and weaving. They don’t meet any traffic on the way out to the desert, which is just as well. Once they have a clear stretch of land, Keith guns it, the speedometer climbing higher and higher. 

Shiro feels like he’s flying again. If he closes his eyes and just focuses on the power of the engine beneath them, the powerful curve of Keith’s body against his, then it’s like being in the sky again. He nearly wants to cry with the force of it all. 

Eventually, though, Keith stops gunning the engine and lets the bike glide across the sand, coming to a natural stop on the outskirts of town, in that space between full wilderness and suburbia. Shiro hesitates, not wanting to stop holding so tight to Keith’s waist.

Keith gives a light sigh and sinks back against Shiro’s chest, his hands easing off the handlebar. He pulls his goggles up and tips his chin, peering up at Shiro upside down, the top of his head digging into Shiro’s sternum. 

“Hi,” Shiro tells him. 

Keith grins. “Hi. Ready for your turn?” 

“I don’t—” Shiro begins and stops when Keith slinks off the bike as easy as liquid and then hooks his leg up behind Shiro. Now Keith’s the one pressing up against Shiro’s back, his arm looping lazily around his waist, his cheek pressing down against the back of his neck. 

Shiro inhales slowly, chest swelling. Keith gives a little rumble of a breath, seemingly content to press himself full-bodied against Shiro. 

“Keith—” 

Keith plucks up Shiro’s hand and plants it on the handlebar, then stretches out where he’s pressed tight against Shiro’s back and plants his right hand on the other side of the bar. They both grip the bike like that and Shiro finally clues into what Keith means.

“Keith,” he begins.

“Nothing for miles,” Keith murmurs in his ear. “Let’s try it. Okay?” 

Shiro knows he should protest, but he can’t think to voice it when his hand’s on a hoverbike’s controls again. It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t care. He laughs, disbelieving, and nods his head.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s try.”

Keith grins, jerking his goggles back down and then flicks his hand forward to throttle the engine. It hums to life, the wind turbos kicking up sand around them as the bike starts to hover. 

They start out slow enough, far slower than Keith’s getaway from the Garrison. The hoverbike wobbles as it skids across the sand, picking up speed. Hoverbikes were meant to go fast and at its slower speed, it’s wobbly and precarious. But Keith was right— there’s nothing for miles. And Shiro can be patient. 

It works perfectly like this— somehow. Somehow, they make a good team. When Shiro nudges his side of the handlebar forward, Keith tugs his back and they curve into the turn together. Keith’s a sensual line against his body, flowing with him. Together, they weave through the desert, piloting the hoverbike together.

By the end of it, they’ve picked up enough speed to dart around a corner tight enough that Keith gives a shouting laugh of delight, ringing loud in Shiro’s ear. And Shiro can’t help but respond, his heart soaring as they whip through the desert. 

Eventually, Keith guns the engine, shooting them into a dangerously high speed, and Shiro can only feel delight. 

They race deeper and deeper into the wilderness. Once they’re in the foothills of distant mountains, Keith taps his free hand against Shiro’s chest, indication to slow down. Shiro watches Keith ease off the accelerator on the handlebar and Shiro sighs, easing into the brakes. 

The hoverbike glides to a halt just at the base of a little hill. Once the hoverbike’s stationary, Keith slides off, takes Shiro’s hand, and leads him up to the crest of the land. 

They watch the sunset like that, sitting down together, side by side. The sand is warm to the touch but not scorching this late into the evening. There’s the softest lick of a warm breeze and, overall, it’s a beautiful moment. 

“Watch this,” Keith says and presses two fingers into his mouth, letting out one shrill whistle. 

Shiro puzzles at it for only half a breath before there’s a flicker of bright blue light and Kosmo appears, tongue lulling from his mouth and tail whipping back and forth. He darts to Keith and licks his face in sloppy swipes of his tongue. 

Shiro laughs, amused, although it turns to a horrified chuckle when Kosmo does the same to Shiro, licking into his ear with one wet, slick stripe of his tongue. 

Once Kosmo settles, he thumps onto the ground with a soft, doggy exhale and plants his head into Keith’s lap. Keith chuckles and pets him absently, his eyes skirting towards the horizon to watch the sunset. 

“Thanks, Keith,” Shiro murmurs after the silence lapses between them. “I needed this.” 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. “I thought so. I needed it, too.” 

They go quiet after that, watching the sun sink lower and lower. As the sky starts turning darker, Keith tilts his head towards the hoverbike. 

It’s the first time Shiro’s ever really appreciated a sunset. It doesn’t feel like an end. He can feel a hum of anticipation growing inside him, sitting here with Keith. 

Keith tilts his head back towards the hoverbike as the sun sinks lower. “There’s a lantern in one of the compartments.” 

Not wanting Keith to disturb Kosmo, Shiro goes to get the lantern for him, popping it to life with a little burst of quintessence-tinged light and setting it down in the sand behind them. The three of them cast a long shadow across the sand. 

“I’m sorry about today,” Keith admits. “But people just… They get me so mad.” 

“It’s okay,” Shiro dismisses. “I get it.” 

Keith nods, biting his lip. “You know, I… I’ve wanted to be a pilot ever since I saw the world racing championship, the one back in 2022…” 

Shiro blinks. That’d been the year he’d won the championship and ensured his position in the Galaxy Garrison’s pilot program. That’d been just a few years after first contact with the Galra and Alteans. Everything had been in flux, politically speaking— but flying his ship, he’d felt so free, felt like there was nothing left in the world that could hurt him. 

That time feels so long ago now. 

“I flew in that race,” Shiro says, causally.

Keith snorts. “Yeah, duh. I know. You’re what inspired me to become a pilot in the first place.” 

He says it so casually, like it’s obvious, that Shiro wants to laugh. He also wants to cry. 

He settles for laughing, quirking a smile. “You’re kidding. You don’t need to flatter me.”

But Keith frowns, brow pinching. “I’m not. I’m serious.” 

And really, Shiro has no reason to think Keith would joke about that— has no reason to think Keith isn’t anything but earnest. Still, it’s strange to think of himself back then, still young and still early in his career, somehow inspiring someone else. That the someone he might have inspired could be so talented, so intense, so sincere. 

Shiro laughs again, his heart feeling all twisted up. He doubts he can be much of an inspiration now, in the end. 

He looks at Keith, watches how angular and catlike his face looks even now, especially in the dark light of the desert, the way the lantern light kisses the edges of his face. His eyes glitter. 

“Guess my flying days are behind me, though,” Shiro admits.

“We flew today.”

Shiro chuckles, softly, his heart overfull. “Yeah, I guess we did.” 

“Don’t… I don’t want to overstep,” Keith says, carefully, “But— you could fly again if you wanted, couldn’t you?” 

Shiro hums, shaking his head. “I could get on a waitlist for a prosthetic,” Shiro agrees, staring out over the star-kissed desert. “If I got an advanced one, then maybe.” 

“Why haven’t you?” 

“I don’t know,” Shiro admits, even though he knows why. He breathes in and back out again; he wouldn’t normally admit as much, but it’s easy enough to say these things to Keith. “Everybody talks about me like I need to be fixed. Like I’m incomplete without the arm. I include myself in that, too. I spent my whole life wanting to fly… and I know getting the prosthetic’s not going to matter in the long-run.” 

“Why not?” Keith’s staring down at a sleeping Kosmo, running his fingers through the thick mane of his hair. 

“I’m not going to get any _good_ missions if I reenlist,” Shiro says. “I’m a flight-risk. And there’s no telling how accurate the prosthetic would be. It’s not the same. It won’t ever be the same.” 

Keith is silent beside him. Shiro’s grateful for that.

He digs his boot into the sand and admits, “I hate it.” 

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, sympathetic but not pitying. 

Shiro sighs, staring out at the sand. In the day, it’s so bright it makes his eyes hurt. Now it feels like a blanket. “I don’t want to go through all the effort to ‘fix’ myself only for it to not matter. I don’t want it to seem like I agree I’m broken.” 

“You’re not.” 

“No,” Shiro admits. “I’m not.” He smiles, wanly. “If only I could fully convince myself of that, you know?” 

Keith’s quiet for a time. “When I was a kid,” he says finally, “my dad nearly died in a house fire. He was a firefighter, always wanted to be and had been for a while. But it was a really bad fire and he made a mistake and nearly got burned alive for it.” He pauses, glancing at Shiro. “He was really badly burned and got kinda forced to retire after that. Lots of recovery time and PT. He was in a bad place for a while.” 

“Yeah,” Shiro says, softly, prompting. 

“Afterwards, once he was better, he didn’t know what to do with himself,” Keith says. “He had me and my mom, and that helped, but he didn’t have the career he’d spent his whole life working towards. And he didn’t know what to do next.” 

“What did he end up doing?” 

Keith laughs. “Started getting super into barbeque. He’s an expert now, has a tiny restaurant he runs… He was on Chopped: Grill Masters.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Third place,” Keith says proudly. “He loves telling anybody who’ll listen about it. Also, obviously, he makes a fucking great burger.” 

“I bet,” Shiro laughs. 

Keith nudges Shiro gently in the shoulder. “So, I mean… you just have to find your barbeque.” 

Shiro can’t help but laugh again, softer this time. “How poetic. Dunno if you should trust me near a grill.” 

Keith hesitates, clearly wanting to say something more. Shiro tilts his head, humming softly to prompt Keith to share. 

Keith still stays quiet for a moment before, finally, he says, “You know… Altea’s developing ships that aren’t physically controlled. They’re powered by the pilot’s will. The ship’s are still in early development and right now each ship needs to be powered by two pilots. So… you know. Two hands aren’t really required.” 

He looks shy after saying as much, glancing up at Shiro. 

“I mean, we… we flew today,” Keith offers. “It’s— That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Shiro doesn’t know what it is about Keith that makes him feel at ease. Shiro’s so used to being independent, doing everything on his own. Once upon a time, he would have scoffed at the idea of co-piloting. But he and Keith flew across the desert today. 

He only knows Keith a little now. He shouldn’t feel this instantly connected to him. He shouldn’t be even entertaining such a crazy suggestion as this. He shouldn’t even consider uprooting his life for one casual comment from a beautiful boy out in the desert. 

Keith’s looking at him now like he’s waiting for Shiro to gift him something. He couldn’t have ever fathomed someone looking at him like this— especially not someone who absolutely doesn’t need him. 

“Are you saying…?” 

“We could go,” Keith agrees, nodding. “I mean— I’ve been approached by them before. I could— we could…” 

He trails off, looking shy. He glances at Shiro again. 

Shiro tries to imagine Lotor’s absolute rage if, in the end, it isn’t Keith who gets poached by the Altean or Galran tech developers, but _both_ Shiro and Keith. He almost feels sorry for him— they’re friends, but he’s not sure if Lotor’s ever going to let him live that one down. 

“You know what you’re offering, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“We don’t— you don’t really know me that well,” Shiro admits. “I don’t need you to give up a good job just to make me feel better.” 

Keith snorts and then rolls his eyes. “Please. You think I don’t want to fucking pilot a cool ship with my _mind_?” 

“Oh,” Shiro whispers. Kosmo gives a sleepy doggy murmur, grunting when Keith shifts closer. 

Keith doesn’t seem to notice Kosmo at all. His eyes are on Shiro entirely as he scoots forward, dislodging Kosmo until the dog huffs and rolls over and curls up on the sand instead. Keith reaches out, hesitating, and places his hand on Shiro’s shoulder, gripping tight. 

“Besides,” Keith murmurs, definitely shy now, his smile gentle as he glances down. His cheeks turn red. “If we’re talking dreams, then— well. You know. I’ve always wanted to fly with you, Shiro. Ever since I first saw you in that race.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, really,” Keith laughs. “You have no idea how starstruck I was when we met, did you?”

That was nearly a month ago but Shiro really can’t fathom that could have been Keith’s state of mind. But then, maybe Shiro was too busy focusing on how much of an idiot he was making of himself. 

“I— you know. Yeah,” Keith finishes, voice tiny. He smiles at Shiro, something sweet and gentle and a little unknown. 

“You really would do all this?” Shiro asks. He can’t imagine that Keith can know what this means for him, can’t imagine that Keith can even realize what it is he’s offering. 

Shiro’s grown so used to longing. 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. “In a heartbeat.” 

Shiro blinks once, looking at Keith, and then lurches forward to kiss him. He doesn’t even think of it. Just one moment he’s looking at Keith and the next he’s pressing his mouth to his, swallowing Keith’s gasp of surprise.

Shiro pulls back quickly enough. “Um. Sorry. I—” 

But Keith’s hand grabs the back of Shiro’s neck and wrenches him down, biting his lip hard before licking into his mouth, kissing him with all the ferocity and passion that Shiro always imagined Keith would have. 

“God,” Keith whispers softly, wondering, and says nothing more for a few minutes as he kisses the breath from Shiro’s lungs. 

And really, that much is perfect. Really, all Shiro wants to do is kiss Keith until he can’t breathe without feeling Keith’s lips pressed to his. 

“Okay,” Shiro whispers, already bracing himself for Lotor’s meltdown. He grins, helpless and delirious and feeling like he’s flying. “Okay, Keith.” 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers and it sounds like a vow.

And really, all Shiro can do is kiss him again. And again. And again. The night melts away around them as Keith pushes Shiro down into the sand and crawls up after him, kissing him so deep. His hair falls from his ponytail and tickles Shiro’s cheeks and Shiro can’t help but smile into the kiss, cup Keith’s cheek, and pull him down closer. 

He could kiss Keith until the sky falls.

Later, much later, Keith helps brush the sand out from under Shiro’s shirt and Shiro helps him readjust his ponytail. Keith grins at Shiro, something wild and reckless in his eyes— all Shiro wants to do is chase that. Again and again. 

“Come on, Shiro,” Keith says, his hair wild around him and his eyes that dark, deep well of stars that Shiro’s already falling for. His smile is a dagger’s edge, pulling Shiro ever closer into danger. “Let’s go.” 

He holds out his hand to Shiro. Shiro doesn’t have to hesitate— stepping forward, gripping Keith’s hand, and letting Keith lead him anywhere, already feeling like he’s soaring.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
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